by Anna Maxted
‘But I wouldn’t pursue it. Her old man’s worth about fifty mill – inherited a bunch of iron mines from his old man. Bloody Yanks. Never do things by halves. And they’re Lutheran. I should imagine that, after yesterday evening’s display, dear Papa will have received an urgent call from Auntie, and darling Felicia will have been booked home on the next flight. You blew it, Kent.’ He grinned. ‘You got to get in there fast – wham, bam, thank you!’
Jack lit a Stuyvesant. An heiress.
It couldn’t hurt.
Actually it could. He didn’t want her loot. He was well able to make his own. But her parents would think otherwise.
‘I will pursue it,’ he said, quietly.
Cannadine shook his head. ‘She’s from a different world,’ he said. ‘It’ll never work.’
MINNESOTA, USA, 1969
Felicia
‘Daddy, Mommy. This is my husband, Jack Kent.’
Her voice was a hoarse squeak. But there was pride, too. He was dreamy – and all hers. She adored everything about him: his accent, his laugh, his angular cheekbones, his beautiful body; even – oh, especially – she loved doing it with him, just thinking about it made her go all juicy.
She bit back a giggle. Terror always made her want to burst out laughing. Could you imagine if Mommy and Daddy had seen her just an hour before? They had been driving through a paradise of smooth lakes, pinewoods and prairie; everywhere was the blue open sky. Jack had swerved the hire car off the road, making her squeal. He’d pulled her into the meadow, and flung her down amid the yellow and purple wildflowers, and pushed his face into … oh my! She’d squirmed, gasped, covered her eyes, protested, but he wouldn’t stop! She didn’t want him to … The sun’s heat on her bare skin, the sweet scent of lush grasses, the delicious agony of his tongue, until she could hardly bear it … and then, another world of gorgeous sensation. She’d screamed with the intensity of the pleasure, her head flung back, her hands gripping his, and then, as the shudders subsided, she saw a fat bumblebee in a pink hollyhock, and she’d burst into tears of joy. Then, then, he’d kissed her mouth, and she could taste herself, and instead of feeling repulsed, she felt a growing squirl of desire in her belly, and she’d wrapped her long legs around him, and felt his … his dick (she still couldn’t say that word aloud, she could barely think it!) grow big and hard, and, well, it was a good while before they’d gotten back on the road.
She couldn’t look Mommy in the eye. She’d picked every speck of dirt out of her hair, brushed it, reapplied her pale pink lipstick, spritzed herself with Chanel No. 5, but she felt sex ooze brazen from her every pore.
Oh, she and Jack would be fine, she knew it. Sure, eloping with a Jew was a little more challenging than demanding a pink princess phone for her birthday not that stupid American flag brooch from Tiffany & Co., but once Daddy got to know Jack, he’d be sold. Ma and Pa distrusted what they didn’t know, and they’d never met anyone of (as Daddy put it) ‘his persuasion’.
It didn’t help that he was poor. Oh, but everyone was poor compared to them! Who else grew up in a dreary Gothic mansion surrounded by sculpted gardens, serene lakes and lily ponds, a golf course, a horse track, and acres of farmland? And she knew what her parents thought about Jews and money. But Daddy wouldn’t say anything too offensive. If they could sit down and have one meal together – Jack would probably have to mouth grace – they’d see what a wonderful, kind, generous person he was.
Mommy sipped at her water with ice, and turned her face to the wall. But she was wearing her best dress, a blue Anne Fogarty number, so there was hope. Poor Mommy. She’d lived such a buttoned-up life: she had all that money and no fun. All day, she patted her crisp hair and snapped at the housemaids and sip-sip-sipped at her glass of water. And she disapproved – oh, of everything.
She didn’t cook, she didn’t keep house, she wasn’t involved in her own life, she just oversaw it. When she met Daddy she’d been a member of Ladies’ Aid; she’d served him home-made cherry pie after his grandpa’s funeral. She was a simple country girl then, in a hoop skirt. Being surrounded by priceless, pointless possessions had confused her; she could no longer see beauty in the sun rising in mist behind the mountains. Felicia couldn’t give a damn that Jack wasn’t rich – money was not a novelty for her, nor was it a goal. Daddy would see it her way. He was a cool dude, when off the leash – Mommy still didn’t know that he let her gallop his horse and shoot his gun. She could hit a stag in the heart; she was an ace shot. Daddy called her his little tomboy. Oh, but she wasn’t any more. Now she was chic.
She had a new monochrome wardrobe: a Courrèges short white coat and knee-length white vinyl boots, a silver mac from Fenwick’s (ordered in from Paris), a white crochet dress from Biba, pale frosty lipstick, black suede Yves Saint Laurent thigh-high boots, fifteen Chanel suits, black Mr Freedom velvets with yellow stitching; all divine, all safely stashed at her London address – ooh, she couldn’t wait to get back and shop! Mummy thought sixties fashion was for tarts. She thought showing your ankle was vulgar.
‘Good morning, sir, madam, how do you do?’ said Jack.
Felicia swallowed. He sounded so British, which was good, but … alien. He was a big man and even though the drawing room was vast, he looked as if he might suddenly crash sideways into the grand piano. She could tell his confidence set Daddy on edge. Daddy was going to shout. She’d suggested that Jack wear his wedding suit, it had looked so gorgeous in Scotland, but here, in the fierce heat, it looked silly. She was wearing a Givenchy suit, like Elizabeth Taylor in The VIPs. She wanted to look respectable.
‘How dare you,’ said Daddy. ‘How dare you stand here in my house and ask me that. How do you think I do?’ He spoke in a quiet voice that made her wish he would shout. ‘I am grieving the loss of my youngest daughter to you – a thief. You have no respect. You don’t love Felicia or you would not have subjected her to such a public disgrace.’
‘It’s all this rock-and-roll music!’ blurted Mommy. ‘Elvis! It’s disgusting, disgusting!’ Disgusting, she muttered again, into her water. Her hand shook.
Felicia squirmed. Elvis was the fifties, Mommy. And she knew why he was ‘disgusting’ – because he reeked of sex. Mommy couldn’t bear the idea of people doing it. But they had to vent their anger and disappointment. It was like turning on a rusty tap – you had to wait till the water ran clear. Her parents would have loved to have made a grand wedding as they had for her elder sisters, Camellia and Grace. She would have loved a grand wedding – she’d imagined the whole scene: a white velvet dress and a silk fan; sunlight filtering through a canopy in the apple orchard; her mother’s jewels, the pink diamond and the tiara with emeralds the size of sparrow eggs – it had once belonged to a tsarina. Mommy kept it in a safe; she never looked at it.
‘There is no disgrace, sir, in a woman being married to a man who loves her. I intend to look after Felicia for the rest of my life.’ Jack stood with his chin jutted out. She loved his courage, but wished he would look a bit sorrier.
‘More likely, sir, that you intend Felicia to look after you for the rest of your life.’
Oh my. ‘Daddy, I—’
‘Be quiet!’ roared Daddy, making her jump. He glared around the room and his gaze fixed on Mommy. ‘I think you’ve had enough water, Elaine.’
Mommy placed her glass on the side table a little too hard. Crack!
Daddy took a step towards Jack. ‘I’m going to tell you something, young man, and you listen good. My girl was raised in a decent, God-fearing household. We’ve always been humble in the face of what God gave us. But you, sir, are bold and greedy. You lack courtesy. And courtesy is a superficial term for actions that have a crucial role in building the character of a decent human being.’
Felicia hardly dared look at Jack. Surely Daddy had let off enough steam. He’d start to calm down now. Should she suggest a tour around the estate? Daddy could show off his land, she and Mommy could sit in the drawing room and make conversation about … so
mething. Perhaps a friend had died?
Daddy stubbed out his cigar in a silver ashtray. ‘I am seeing my lawyer tomorrow, as I intend to disinherit Felicia. If I drop dead next week, my daughter will not receive a penny. What do you say to that?’
Jack smiled and lit one of his own cigarettes – without asking permission from Mommy. She couldn’t believe it. He was so cool. But maybe a little deference would be wise, help smooth the path to reconciliation?
‘I’m delighted, Mr Love,’ replied Jack. ‘This means there can be no rumours about me living off my wife. This way, everyone will know that I married for love, and love alone, if you’ll excuse the pun. Goodbye. This will be the last time we meet. Let’s go, Felicia. We need to make our flight.’
Mommy stared, taking a great slug of water – most unmannerly. Daddy blinked as if he’d misheard.
Felicia stood up, uncertain. She didn’t care about the money, really she didn’t, but it was so hurtful. She felt betrayed. She wanted to blurt: What, will I never see you again? She felt a crazy urge to run up to her room, fling herself on her soft pink bed and cry.
‘Bye bye, Mommy. Bye bye, Daddy.’ She didn’t look back. She led her husband out of the room, and away.
EAST LONDON, 1969
Sharon
Fifteen-year-old Sharon Marshall walked into school and shut herself in the toilet. She felt sick with dread, and the stink of the toilets made her feel sicker. The cubicle door wouldn’t close; she pulled her cardigan sleeve over her fist to slide the lock but it was broken. The pan was full of watery shit, and she retched. She kicked down the lid, tore off a sheet of shiny toilet paper, held it carefully so that her fingers did not make contact with the chain, and pulled.
Then she stood in the tiny cubicle, trying not to breathe the dense fetid air, or tread in any wet patches, reading the graffiti without wanting to: Paul, I wanna suck your coke. This was a top education establishment, so it was. What next? She had no choice. She was going to have to stay in the stall, with disgusting germs crawling over her, all bloody day. She hadn’t thought about tomorrow. God, if only she hadn’t spent two months’ wages from the market on a haircut. Oh, but it was very black, very Mary, very worth it.
She carefully removed her make-up mirror from her knickers. It was a shard of glass she’d found in the street. Also out of the magic knickers came a small pot of rouge – nicely warm, ha ha! She used her fingertips to create a healthy blush because, Christ knew, it wasn’t going to happen naturally.
There was a sudden barrage of noise.
‘Marshall? Marrrrr-shall! We know you’re in here!’
Bang! Bang! Bang! Sally was kicking open the door of each stall like a nutter.
Sharon slowly walked out of the cubicle, and stood, arms by her sides, as if she didn’t give a toss. Standing with your arms crossed was more of a fuck-off, but not useful if you needed to deck someone.
‘Yeah, I’m in here. I’m doing my fucking hair, so what?’
Sally’s pale freckled face – she had a flat nose with flared nostrils like a farm animal – lit up with a leering triumph. She didn’t even drop her gaze, she screeched, straight away, ‘Love the shoes!’
Her mates – Patsy Gapper, long, lank, orange hair, very sharp teeth; and Kerry Nelson, walked like a gorilla, thunk, thunk, mean left hook – cackled.
Sharon’s body went whoosh in a rush of hatred. Not for Patsy, or Kerry, or even Sally. But for her parents: her mother, so pathetically meek; her disgusting father, always between jobs. An image of her mother, washing the jelly off a lump of canned ham, flashed in her mind. Sharon shuddered. That was her life. It was them she hated, for thinking that black ugly shapeless shoes with holes in them that had already been worn by a dead woman would do. She knew Patsy had seen her creeping out of the drab little store, its shameful sign pinned over the door: ‘Homes Cleared’.
Her parents didn’t care that there was punishment for being a pov, she thought as she went limp and held her breath while they forced her head deep into the toilet pan – ‘Wait up, let’s do a good thick piss in it first!’ – roughly, so she hit the porcelain, gasped in pain, swallowed a load of toilet water and Sally’s urine.
Sharon’s mother knew her place and she’d raised her children to know theirs. Sharon’s sister was doing time for attempted blackmail; her brother Gerry had hired a van to steal furniture from the Ideal Home Show. It didn’t occur to them that they might earn money, because Mum had passed down her inferiority complex like a gypsy curse and her kids didn’t know they were capable. Other people got rich.
Sharon disagreed.
She washed her hair in the tiny sink, using the grey soap as shampoo; she scraped the filth off it first. She styled it, carefully, calmly, in her broken mirror. Then she marched into the classroom, banging the door on its hinges, flung herself into a chair and swung her feet, encased in those vile second-hand shoes, on to the wooden desk. Miss Eliot went off like a firework, but Sharon was deaf to it.
She was going to get rich, and then she was going to buy a really expensive pair of top designer shoes for every fucking day of the year – and she wasn’t risking prison to do it. She was a good-looking girl. She had other options.
LONDON, 1974
Felicia
‘For your pleasure …’ As Bryan Ferry sang the words, he seemed to look straight at her. Felicia giggled and pouted a little. God, he was gorgeous, even with silver eyeshadow and the tight spangled siren suit, and she was really in the mood. She smoothed her hands down her Yves Saint Laurent rainbow evening dress; it clung in all the right places; one advantage of her situation. She wasn’t certain about the hair, the glitter was more her style than the afro, but she just wanted to scream with the fun of it all, and dance; she wanted to dance and dance until the rising sun kissed the stern London skyline a warm shade of orange.
Pity about old Grizzle Pants over there, perched stiffly on the red leather banquette like a cross parrot, the flirty pink cocktail she’d bought for him untouched. He did look so sweet though, in his terribly proper English suit – Douglas Hayward, crazy British name – and his black polished shoes. He was sulking, and it was so unfair. He could do with one of those cute little pills; she only took them for her figure. That would put some shake in his tail! She sipped her champagne, carefully, from the bowl, so as not to smudge her cherry-red lipstick, checked her cleavage (boobs were in again), looked up and saw Bryan Ferry checking it too. He tilted his head; barely a movement. From nowhere, two burly men lifted her like a doll on to the stage.
She blushed pink as she looked into his dark eyes. Oh hell, he looked wasted, yet there was a raw sexiness about him, and he was holding her hand and singing for her, and she knew that every woman in the club – the slinky little actresses, the cool ice blondes, the diplomats’ tarts – all of them loathed her to death and wanted to beat her to a pulp with their platform shoes!
She laughed and shimmied. There was a wolf-whistle from the back. Bryan Ferry pulled her hand into the air, teasing her close. Her chest bumped his, and he bent to murmur in her ear …
‘Get off me!’ roared a voice that cut above the music. ’That’s my wife up there!’
Shouts of laughter and, once again, she was lifted through the air and plopped on to the ground. Jack – oh Lord, his face was like flint – grabbed her wrist and stalked up the basement stairs, yanking her behind him. A few people clapped and laughed. She glanced back at the stage. Bryan Ferry allowed himself a glimmer of a smile, the tiniest shrug, and carried on singing.
‘Never humiliate me again, Felicia. You are out of control and I won’t have it.’
He was like Daddy, she realized with a pang. He never shouted, but the fury in his voice chilled the life out of you. The buzz left her, like a ghost, and she shivered in the chill of the night air.
‘Oh come on, honey, relax a little, why don’t you? It was only a bit of fun.’ She pulled her silver fox closer across her shoulders and snuggled her arms around his waist.
/> He shook her off. ‘Jesus, Felicia, why don’t you listen? You made a complete scene of yourself in that … disgusting pit. If you must go to a club let’s go to a decent place, like Annabel’s.’
‘Annabel’s!’ Felicia felt rage rise in her throat. ‘We might as well go to fucking church! I want to enjoy myself!’
Jack grabbed her wrists and yanked her to him. ‘Yes, darling, and you’re enjoying yourself a little too fucking much.’
She tried to shake him off, but he was too strong. She stifled a giggle – if he wasn’t so mad, this might be kinky. Then he scowled, and her mood dipped.
‘Oh, what do you care,’ she snapped, wanting the fight suddenly. ‘You’re never home, you’re always at the office, and if you’re not at the office, you’re at Harry Cannadine’s dumb gentlemen’s club drinking G ‘n’ Ts and talking about … horses! Horses!’ she screamed, assuming her iciest British accent. ‘Why, pray, when we have not spoken of horses all year!’
‘Let me tell you’, he hissed, giving her wrists another shake, ‘why I work so damn hard. I do it for us. Because you do nothing! Harry’s wife took a bride’s course, off Grosvenor Square. She learned how to cook and to turn a man’s cuff! She has a role and she takes it seriously! She devotes every minute of her day to progressing his career. She hosts dinner parties; she is the consummate hostess; she puts him first, always!’
‘Harry’s wife is a stupid fat sow who never sees her own children. The Norlander is their mother, she just wafts in and wafts out. At tea that time, Alfie drew her a picture of a train and she didn’t even look, and that little boy was crushed. I hate Harry’s wife, dumb bitch, she makes me sick!’ She was shaking.
‘Felicia,’ said Jack, more gently, and because his voice was kind, she burst into tears. ‘Sweetheart, don’t cry. It’ll be OK.’